On poetry - Rebecca Lindenberg

 

' Forlorn' - Artist unknown

 

When love arrives - Sarah Kay & Phil Kaye

I knew exactly what love looked like- in seventh grade. Even though I hadn’t met love yet, if love had wandered into my homeroom I would've recognized him at first glance. Love wore a hemp necklace. I would've recognized her at first glance, love wore a tight French braid. Love played acoustic guitar and knew all my favorite Beatle songs. Love wasn’t afraid to ride the bus with me. And I knew, I just must be searching the wrong classrooms, just must be checking the wrong hallways, she was there, I was sure of it. If only I could find him.

But when love finally showed up, she had a bow cut. He wore the same clothes every day for a week. Love hated the bus. Love didn’t know anything about The Beatles. Instead, every time I try to kiss love, our teeth got in the way. Love became the reason I lied to my parents. I’m going to- Ben’s house. Love had terrible rhythm on the dance floor, but made sure we never missed a slow song. Love waited by the phone because she knew that if her father picked up it would be: “Hello? Hello? I guess they hung up.”

And love grew, stretched like a trampoline. Love changed. Love disappeared, slowly, like baby teeth, losing parts of me I thought I needed. Love vanished like an amateur magician, and everyone could see the trapdoor but me. Like a flat tire, there were other places I planned on going, but my plans didn’t matter. Love stayed away for years, and when love finally reappeared, I barely recognized him. Love smelt different now, had darker eyes, a broader back, love came with freckles I didn't recognize. New birthmarks, a softer voice. Now there were new sleeping patterns, new favorite books. Love had songs that reminded him of someone else, songs love didn’t like to listen to. So did I.

But we found a park bench that fit us perfectly, we found jokes that make us laugh. And now, love makes me fresh homemade chocolate chip cookies. But love will probably finish most of them for a midnight snack. Love looks great in lingerie but still likes to wear her retainer. Love is a terrible driver, but a great navigator. Love knows where she’s going, it just might take her two hours longer than she planned. Love is messier now, not as simple. Love uses the words “boobs” in front of my parents. Love chews too loud. Love leaves the cap off the toothpaste. Love uses smiley faces in her text messages. And turns out, love shits!

But love also cries. And love will tell you you are beautiful and mean it, over and over again. You are beautiful. When you first wake up, “you are beautiful.” When you’ve just been crying, “you are beautiful.” When you don’t want to hear it, “you are beautiful.” When you don’t believe it, “you are beautiful.” When nobody else will tell you, “you are beautiful.” Love still thinks- you are beautiful. But love is not perfect and will sometimes forget, when you need to hear it most, you are beautiful, do not forget this.

Love is not who you were expecting, love is not who you can predict. Maybe love is in New York City, already asleep, and you are in California, Australia, wide awake. Maybe love is always in the wrong time zone, maybe love is not ready for you. Maybe you are not ready for love. Maybe love just isn’t the marrying type. Maybe the next time you see love is twenty years after the divorce, love is older now, but just as beautiful as you remembered. Maybe love is only there for a month. Maybe love is there for every firework, every birthday party, every hospital visit. Maybe love stays- maybe love can’t. Maybe love shouldn’t.

Love arrives exactly when love is supposed to, and love leaves exactly when love must. 

When love arrives, say, “Welcome. Make yourself comfortable.” 

If love leaves, ask her to leave the door open behind her. 

Turn off the music, listen to the quiet, whisper, “Thank you. Thank you for stopping by.”

 

Reflections on mental health - By Manfred F. R. Kets de Vries

This article is 'pure distilled wisdom' - an absolutely stunning and deeply insightful piece of writing about what it truly means to be human. Among the finest things I have read in long long time.  

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There’s something slightly ironic about trying to write neatly about mental health, a subject

that is anything but neat. It often begins with a list of admirable traits—resilience, self-awareness,

emotional balance, hope—and quickly runs into the reality that mental health

is not a polished or perfect state. It includes moments of self-doubt, emotional

overreaction, small regrets, and the quiet wondering of whether you're coping as well as

you seem. Mental health isn’t about always having it together—it’s about finding ways to

keep going, even when the going is quite hard.

And yet, for all its contradictions, mental health is real. It matters. It shapes how we live,

how we love, and how we recover from the inevitable challenges and disappointments of

being human. So if we are to define it—or at least approach an understanding—we must

do so with both seriousness and humility. Because to be mentally healthy is to hold space

for both the difficult and the hopeful, the sorrowful and the absurd, and to remain steady

in the midst of all that complexity.

At its foundation, mental health depends on a stable sense of identity—not a fixed or rigid

idea of who we are, but an underlying continuity that we can return to, even when life

feels chaotic. For many of us, identity is not necessary a finished product. We grow, we

shift, we change our minds. But stability means having enough of a through-line to

recognize ourselves across all those changes. It’s the ability to say, “This is still me,” even

when the details—our roles, our relationships, our beliefs—have evolved. Mentally

healthy people still experience doubt and confusion. They still have moments when they

feel lost. But they don’t fall apart in those moments. There’s something steady, even if

quiet, that holds them together. They may question what’s happening to them, but they

carry within them a sense of self that doesn’t disappear when faced with uncertainty and

doesn’t rely entirely on external approval to feel real.

And because we are not born in isolation, mental health also hinges on the ability to form

and sustain relationships. Which isn’t easy. It can be hard to be close to people. Human

beings can be inconvenient, unpredictable, full of opinions and contradictory emotions.

Still, nobody is an island. Homo sapiens is a social animal. A mentally healthy person

knows how to be open to others without being consumed by them. They can navigate the

highs and lows of love and friendship, tolerate intimacy, make amends when necessary,

and, crucially, accept that no relationship is free of friction. They know that being close

sometimes means being wounded, and that the alternative—numb detachment—is far

worse.

Much of our inner peace depends on how we protect ourselves from being

overwhelmed—psychologically, that is. Everyone uses defense mechanisms. However,

there’s a world of difference between defenses that help us grow and those that quietly

unravel us over time. Some primitive defenses, like splitting, denial or projection, may

numb discomfort in the short term but often leave us stranded from ourselves. Others,

feel sharp and clever but tend to isolate more than they soothe. In contrast, mature

defenses like humor, sublimation, creativity or altruism allow us to stay engaged with life

without being consumed by it. These types of defenses redirect our anxiety into art or

planning, our sadness into insight, our frustration into meaningful action. The mentally

healthy use their defenses not to hide from reality, but to stay present with it—just

softened around the edges.

Equally vital is the ability to feel the full range of emotions. Too often we associate mental

health with calmness, serenity, some kind of enlightened neutrality. But the truth is,

emotional richness is something positive. Anger, sorrow, jealousy, joy, longing, disgust—

all of these have their place. What matters is not eliminating “negative” feelings but

learning to name them, express them, and let them pass without hijacking our lives. To

feel deeply and not be destroyed by feelings—that’s the goal. A healthy person can cry

when crying is called for and laugh loudly when something’s funny.

All this emotional bandwidth would be unbearable without a degree of impulse control—

another underrated but vital quality. It is the quiet cornerstone of a functioning life. The

ability to sit with discomfort without doing something immediately dramatic—to not text

your irritation to an ex-lover, to not rage and quit your job, to not punch a wall—is what

allows us to live among others. Mental health doesn’t mean not having wild thoughts. It

means having them and not acting on them in ways that damage your life or someone

else’s. It's being able to say, “I feel this... and I will wait.”

Now let’s pause at an often-overlooked frontier of personal well-being: sexual health. Not

performance, not perfection, but the ability to engage with one’s sexuality in a way that

feels safe, integrated, and human. Mentally healthy people are not immune to

awkwardness, insecurity, or mismatched sexual desires—but they are able to talk about

it, explore it, set boundaries, and ask for what they need. They experience sex not only

as release or validation but also as connection, play, communication. It’s not always

candlelit and transcendent. Sometimes it’s clumsy. Sometimes it’s not wanted at all. But

it’s not a battlefield of shame and guilt.

The mentally well are also able to tolerate ambivalence—that strange, uneasy feeling of

having two contradictory truths living in your chest at the same time. They can love

someone and be disappointed in them. They can feel afraid and excited. They can want

to leave and still choose to stay. Mental health is, in large part, about developing the

capacity to sit inside murky waters without thrashing around in panic. Ambivalence is not

a flaw in cognition. It’s evidence that you accept contradictions.

Loss, of course, is unavoidable. To be alive is to lose—lovers, dreams, moments. A

person’s mental health is not measured by whether or not they grieve. All of us have this

experience. It’s measured by their ability to grieve without giving up. Depression visits all

of us, some more frequently than others. What marks the mentally healthy is not immunity,

but resilience. They can feel the dead weight of sorrow and still manage their lives. Also,

they are able to ask for help when it’s needed. They keep participating in life even when

life doesn’t feel worth the effort.

A good sense of reality is one of the quieter, often overlooked markers of mental health—

but it is essential. It involves the ability to distinguish between what we feel and what is

fact, between fears and actual threats, between our internal narrative and the world as it

really is. Mentally healthy people aren’t immune to distortion—they, too, have moments

of catastrophizing or wishful thinking. But they’re able to notice when their mind is drifting

into fantasy or panic and gently bring themselves back to what can be observed, checked,

and trusted. They can hold their emotional responses with care, while also stepping back

and asking, “Is this the full picture?” This grounding in reality makes them more open,

more flexible, and more capable of living in the world as it is, not just as they fear or wish

it to be.

And then there’s playfulness—perhaps one of the most underrated signs of mental

wellness. It’s easy to mistake it for immaturity, but in reality, playfulness signals emotional

flexibility and a deep kind of resilience. It’s the ability to find lightness in heavy moments,

to respond to life’s absurdities not with despair, but with creativity and humor. Mentally

healthy people retain the capacity to laugh at themselves. This is not avoidance, but a

way of staying engaged—a kind of joyful defiance in the face of pressure or pain. Play is

not reserved for easy times; it’s how we stay human during hard ones.

Underlying all aspects of mental health is the capacity for self-reflection—not obsessive

rumination, but honest, thoughtful observation of one’s own thoughts, feelings, and

behavior. This kind of reflection is not about self-criticism or harsh judgment; it’s about

having the courage to ask, “What am I doing? Why am I doing it? Is this helping me or

hurting me?” and to do so with enough compassion to actually grow from the answers.

Mentally healthy people are not immune to mistakes or blind spots, but they are willing to

own them. They can recognize patterns, admit when they’re wrong, and notice when

they’re slipping into old habits without collapsing into self-blame. Self-reflection, at its

best, is a quiet act of care—a way of staying connected to ourselves while making space

to change. It allows us to evolve without disowning who we’ve been, and to move forward

with a bit more clarity and kindness each time.

And finally, to be mentally healthy is to carry within oneself a quiet, steady thread of hope.

Not the loud kind of optimism that insists everything will be fine, nor the forced

cheerfulness that denies pain—but a grounded belief that things can improve, even if they

aren’t okay right now. It’s the conviction that we can endure difficulty, that change is

possible, and that our efforts—however small—matter. Mentally healthy people don’t

always feel hopeful, but they return to it like a touchstone. They have the ability to reframe

things positively. Also, they find meaning in everyday gestures, purpose in effort, and

even in failure, the beginnings of growth. They understand that pain is not a detour from

life, but part of the path—and that hope is not about ignoring hardship but about moving

through it with the belief that something meaningful can still emerge. They believe that

they have agency.

In the end, mental health is not a destination or a fixed achievement. It isn’t a line we

cross that guarantees ease or clarity from then on. Rather, it’s a way of being—a daily

practice shaped by patience, reflection, and the ongoing effort to live meaningfully within

the shifting realities of our lives. It’s about staying present with ourselves, even when we

feel uncertain or overwhelmed. It’s about showing up—not perfectly, but consistently—

with as much honesty and kindness as we can manage.

Also, mental health doesn’t require that we have all the answers. It asks only that we

remain engaged—with others, with our own thoughts and feelings, and with the broader,

often difficult, experience of being human. It invites a kind of strength that isn’t about force

or certainty, but about flexibility and resilience. It allows for moments of grief, confusion,

even absurdity—and still makes room for joy, connection, and quiet confidence.

In fact, to be mentally healthy is to accept contradictions: to feel both hopeful and tired,

both steady and unsure. It’s the capacity to be flawed and still worthy, lost and still

committed to finding our way. To reframe things positively when times are tough. Also, it

pertains to the ability to own our own life.

Perhaps the most encouraging part of all this is that many of us are doing just that—

imperfectly, quietly, and often without realizing it. We continue to care, to reflect, to love,

to grow. And in that persistence, there is something deeply human—and deeply healthy—

about simply continuing on.

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